Biggles by John Pearson

reconnaissance could provide.
    Even in decent weather this sort of reconnaissance was hazardous. The German base at Vanfleur was forty miles behind their Lines, and although the F.E.2s were ideal for this sort of operation, as their low speed and stability made them the perfect spotter planes, they were also hideously vulnerable. The generals were demanding detailed information — numbers of rail trucks in the sidings, news about arms dumps and troop formations, all of which meant that the aircraft would have to spend several minutes flying dangerously low across the town.
    When the request came through from High Command, one of the most experienced pilots in the Squadron, a Captain Littleton, was given the job. He failed to return. So did Lieutenant Blake, another veteran of 169. But although two planes were lost, there was no question of abandoning the task; it was now the turn of Biggles’ flight.
    Mapleton, the Flight Commander, refused point blank to ask for volunteers. ‘I’m not letting anyone commit suicide just because he considers it the right thing to do,’ were the words he used. Instead he suggested that all three pilots tossed for it, the odd man out to go. Inevitably, the odd man out was Biggles. Way appeared understandably concerned. Mapleton’s talk of suicide was not exactly calculated to give much encouragement to the chosen victims, but Biggles seemed delighted, for he had reached that dangerous point of all young fliers where confidence had started to outrun experience. He seemed to have a charmed life in the air and felt no fear. Flying was still a game, and even the warnings and the grim briefing from the CO., Major Paynter, failed to dampen his spirits.
    Paynter suggested that they flew at dawn next morning, but Biggles showed his contempt for Paynter’s advice by insisting on that very afternoon.
    â€˜Jerry is always waiting for a dawn patrol,’ he said. ‘Less opposition in the afternoon.’
    The C.O. agreed but warned them to watch out. ‘Reports from Intelligence suggest that Richthofen and his merry men have moved up to the airfield at Douai, and there are already more Boche combat planes there than anywhere else on the Western Front.’ He smiled quizzically. ‘I tell you this to cheer you on your way.’
    â€˜Well, if we’ve got to go, we might as well get it over with as soon as possible,’ Way remarked to Biggles-when they were safely out of earshot.
    Biggles was irrepressible, and twenty minutes later he was giving the F.E.2 full throttle, and the sheds and hangars of the Squadron H.Q. were receding in the rain beneath them. It was filthy weather all the way — rain, broken cloud, and at 8,000 feet ice was soon forming in the cockpit (twice Way fired short bursts on his Lewis guns to stop them icing up). In some ways, however, the weather was a blessing. The cloud gave cover and it would bea very eager German who took his aircraft up in such conditions. And in fact, some forty minutes after taking off, Biggles and Way had reached their destination without incident.
    Then came the tricky bit. Biggles had difficulty finding a break in the cloud and had to bring the aircraft down to 2,000 feet before he and Way could see a thing below then, and at that height the eighty-mile-an-hour F.E.2 was something of a sitting duck for the German anti-aircraft guns. Not that this made the slightest difference to our hero. One of the earliest lessons he had learned was that the only way to deal with ‘Archie’ was to ignore it. ‘If a shell has your name on it, too bad,’ was his philosophy. But as the aircraft sailed slap through the middle of the German barrage, even his equanimity was shaken, and the aircraft bucked and bucketed as the German gunners got rather too close for comfort. Biggles took what evasive action he could manage, banking the F.E.2 and doing his best to twist and turn across the target — none of